


tushah nash-veh k'du

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the aftermath of the battle, Gaila grieves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tushah nash-veh k'du

**Author's Note:**

> title means "i grieve with thee" (Much thanks to the [Vulcan Language Dictionary](http://www.starbase-10.de/vld/) for their help with the spelling) My take on Gaila post Battle of Vulcan. The Vulcans mentioned herein are all named after Vulcans in the Trek novels, they are not intended to be those characters. Just my little nod to some damn classy characters.

The Farragut finally crumbles, breaking apart with an imagined groan. From her position at the shuttle's helm, Gaila has a first class view of the ship's slow decay. She watches the process with dry eyes and as steady hand. Grief and panic are useless now. The planet is lost, the ships are lost, and --

Galia hiccups a sob, frowns at herself, and then laughs. "It would be illogical to deny the reality of your emotions." She doesn't realize at first she's said it, but when she does, she looks behind her at the others, hoping no one noticed.

No one has. The only person moving is T'Mir, a map of the Federation written in blood across her once-pristine blue uniform. They share a look and Gaila brightens her smile. T'Mir's answer is a simple, if weary, nod.

Galia blinks against a sudden attack of tears and turns around. She focuses through watery eyes, reading the panel, and picking a new flight path from the sensor data. She lets her hands drift, programming in maneuvers to keep them safe amidst the debris field that's sheltered them since the attack.

She slips them beneath the Defiant's ruined saucer section and throws in a few quick prayers to the goddess who might be listening. It's not many these days. She hasn't offered any tributes of worth in, well, _ever_. Gaila almost smiles. She'd never been much of a pirate (much to her grandmother's dismay and her mother's pride) even before leaving Orion.

Someone moans and Gaila looks. DeSalle's conscious. She looks at T'Mir and the Vulcan looks back. "Is he -- "

"He will live," T'Mir assures. She lowers her voice before adding, "We are running low on pain medication." She looks down at the man before her, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I am improvising." Her fingers move, quick and sure, and Gaila nods. Vulcan neuropressure, right. T'Mir was a healer before she went to the Academy.

"Starfleet'll be here soon," Gaila promises. "The fleet's coming."

"Undoubtedly," T'Mir agrees. "By now Earth will have recalled them." It's too late. Always too late, but neither one of them says it. It doesn't matter anyway. Laying blame on Starfleet won't bring back the dead.

Gaila watches T'Mir tend to DeSalle, tucking a blanket about him and touching fingers briefly to his temple. Whatever she does, it works and he settles.

"It will not last long," T'Mir says, moving to join Gaila. "We will need proper medical facilities."

"They'll be here," Gaila promises. "I have a friend on the Enterprise." She beams, thinking of Nyota. "She'll make them come back here. I borrowed her favorite sweater last week."

T'Mir's eyebrow creeps upward. Gaila knows that look. That some part of T'Mir can still laugh warms Gaila, warding off the chill that set in as Vulcan fell to pieces. "I do not believe her concern will have much to do with a lost article of clothing."

"No, but you know humans," Gaila shrugs, "they have this _thing_ about telling the truth."

"Many species have similar _things_," T'Mir says. "Vulcans included."

"I know," Gaila says. She looks at the console, feeling T'Mir's gaze follow her every movement. "I'm fine," she says. "You don't have to worry about me."

"You attempt to deceive me," T'Mir comments. When Gaila looks up, she imagines there's a smile of amusement hinting at her from T'Mir's mouth. "Your technique is flawed."

Gaila tosses her hair. "Trust me, Doctor, there is _nothing_ wrong with my technique." Any other day, she might have offered to prove it, but she settles for honesty. Looking at the place where Vulcan used to be, her throat tightens and her eyes sting. "I'm going to miss it."

T'Mir nods. "As will I." She surprises Gaila by curling a hand around hers. "It was Vulcana Regar, yes?"

Surprised again, Gaila lets her change the subject. She's never run into anyone who remembered her from Vulcan and she's curious. "You remember me?"

"Indeed," T'Mir agrees, that look of subtle amusement back in her eyes, "You are somewhat unmistakable Gaila. Particularly when surrounded by a dozen Vulcan schoolchildren."

"They liked my hair," Gaila murmurs. Not many redheads on Vulcan. Green-skinned or otherwise. "I don't remember you there."

"I remained outside," T'Mir says. "My son, Sovek, was of an age." More amusement, tempered now by grief, creeps into her gaze. "He found it disagreeable if I 'hovered' when he was with his agemates."

"Was he -- " Gaila tips her head. Even as she asks it, she kicks herself. You _don't ask_ like that. Not them. Not _Vulcans_.

T'Mir shakes her head. "No. There was an accident. He and his father -- " She presses her lips together. "I left Vulcan shortly afterward."

"I'm sorry," Gaila says, voice cracking. She squeezes T'Mir's hand tightly, trying to remember the Vulcan words for 'I grieve with thee' but can't. She tries it in Orion instead and then Federation Standard and then she's crying and she _wasn't going to do this_. Hiccuping, she rubs her eyes and tries to apologize.

"There is no need," T'Mir says, unruffled. "It is not logical to deny one's natural state."

Gaila laughs, sobs, then laughs again. She laughs herself sick, but she's hysterical and she's not going to make any apologies for that.

T'Mir's brow furrows. "I have said something which amuses you?"

"My mother said the same thing when I was little." Knowing she's only confusing T'Mir more, Gaila explains, "My parents were killed. A Vulcan ship found me." She swallows against the knot in her throat. She hasn't let herself think about it in years. Not since the flight from her home, the authorities pursuing them, her mother and fathers shielding her against the weapons fire. "They took me home with them. The captain adopted me."

She doesn't want to be thinking about this now, but she can't stop either. "I'm going to miss the Forge. I _loved_ the Forge," she says, staring at the readings." Le-matyas and Sehlats, the Womb of Fire, the heat of the afternoon sun beating down on her shoulders. Gaila squares her shoulders and forces herself to look at the console. Ever shifting, the debris field is as much enemy as friend. "I cried for a week when they said I couldn't have a Kahs-wan."

"Why did you cease?"

"Oh, my mother said it wouldn't be fair." Gaila grins in spite of the pain. "I spent so much time on the Forge that I could find my way across it blindfolded. She suggested I try Starfleet instead. Unfamiliar ground. She was right."

"Indeed," T'Mir says. "They are nothing if not challenging." She leans forward, staring at the wreckage that surrounds them. Her lips thin and Gaila feels fingers dig tightly into her own, Vulcan strength pressing them together until she almost cries out. She doesn't. She bears it. Thinking of T'Theilah, Sorahl, and their children, Gaila bears it. "To do this for us. I confess, Cadet, I do not understand it."

"I don't think we're supposed to," Gaila says, knowing T'Mir's remembering the same thing she is. Their human shipmates fighting and dying to a planet they barely knew. "They like it that way."

"I suspect that they do," T'Mir agrees.

They fall silent, both staring into space, and Gaila thinks that she should say _something_. Something important. Anyone else would. _Nyota_ would. She sucks down a breath, willing Nyota and the Enterprise to hurry up. She needs help. She needs to know what to say.

She doesn't know how to do this and, down deep, she feels like she's letting them down. All of them. Vulcan, her crewmates, everyone that died --

Gaila lifts her chin. She wants to hurl a curse at the ship and the men that crewed it. Curse them with the names of all the goddesses she grew up idolizing. Invoke their blades and their ships to chase Vulcan's murderers across the afterlife, cutting them to ribbons and displaying their heads like trophies, paraded through the galaxy for all to see.

She doesn't.

They're still here. That's enough.


End file.
